Someone Watching
by Phoebonica
Summary: Kit hasn't seen her little brother in a while...


Disclaimer: Daniel Handler owns these characters, not me. I'm just an interested bystander.

This was originally written as a birthday present for my fellow volunteer Keri.

**Someone Watching**

When he's sleeping, he looks like her little brother again.

She's always thought there was something childlike about his face, although that could just be because she's his big sister and she can remember him when he really was that young. But even when they were grown up there was always a kind of _innocence_ about him, a sense of complete openness, complete sincerity. Out of the three of them he was the one who believed the most strongly in their work, who was convinced they were doing great things. They all believed that, of course, but Lemony _knew_ it.

When she saw him in the lobby this morning, he didn't look like that any more. He had his hat pulled down over his eyes so she couldn't see him too clearly until he was standing right next to her, but when he looked into her face for the first time she was shocked by how much older he seemed. Of course, it had been a long time since they'd seen each other, but it was more than that. It was the way he stood, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, it was the way he kept glancing around the room as if he was looking for escape routes. It was the hunted, haunted look in his eyes. She drew in breath sharply and he said _What's the matter?_ as if he thought there might be a bomb behind him or something. _I barely recognised you_, she said although it wasn't exactly true. She'd know him anywhere.

Even asleep, he isn't relaxed completely. He's curled up into a ball, taking up barely half the bed, and his left hand grips the sheets as if he's trying to make sure they don't fall away. His hair falls down into his eyes, and that worries her a little because he never normally lets it get that long, he's always been quite fastidious about things like that. She can see him very clearly because he insisted on having the bedside lights on which means that his face is completely illuminated, every line and mark visible, and she realises she's probably the only person on earth who he'd allow to see him like that, a realisation which makes her feel at the same time very privileged and very alone.

He warned her that he might not be able to sleep, but so far he seems relatively peaceful, although when she gently reaches out and touches him he pulls away, frowning. They are still secure here. This place is one of the few that haven't fallen, and for tonight, at least, the two of them are safe.

Where exactly did he sleep last night? And was it the same place as the night before, and before that, how many different places has he stayed in these last few years? These aren't the sort of questions she can ask him, even if she wanted answers, which she doesn't – it sounds harsh, it sounds selfish, but she'd rather not know any more than she has to. And at the same time she wants to know everything, wants to sit him down and have him tell her every detail of what's been happening to him or at least tell her where he's _been_ all this time. She wants to know, even though the thought of knowing scares her, _terrifies_ her. She wants to hear everything. So she can make it stop.

So she can take it all away. All the fear, all the confusion, all the pain. So she can hide him away from the rest of the world, somewhere warm and safe where no one will ever hurt him again. So she can _protect_ him, isn't that what she's always done? Isn't that what a big sister is supposed to do?

_He's a grown man, he can take care of himself_, she's tried to think, on nights when she's been waiting for a telegram or a fax or a carrier pigeon, but it never helped because it really missed the point of the whole thing which was that _yes_ he was a grown man and could take care of himself but he was still in terrible danger. And now that he's not in any (immediate) danger – now that he's here, with her – she can't bring herself to take her eyes off him. She'll have to sleep eventually, she really should be resting because they have a long day ahead of them tomorrow and probably the day after that, but she can't contain her relief at the fact that he's here, he's safe, he's alive, and to a certain extent, he's okay.

She walked in here earlier this evening and found him lying face down on the bed sobbing hysterically into the pillow, and sat down next to him, held out her arms and said _Lemony, come here, you can tell me, it's all right_. He pulled away from her, hastily wiping at his eyes with a tissue, and she stared at him in astonishment. _Lemony, what on earth's the matter?_

_I'm sorry_, he told her, backing away as if she'd been about to confront him over something, _I can't help it, I'm sorry I'm in such a state, you shouldn't have to see me like this_.

She shook her head in disbelief. _As if I'd _mind_! You think I don't _know_ what you're going through? I know what it's like, remember?_

Remembering the way she was when Jacques died. Kicking and raging and screaming, all the more shocking to everyone because she was usually so calm and collected and suddenly she was shrieking like a mad woman and frightening even herself with how out of control she felt. Grabbing the newspaper that had told her the news of his death in between the distorted lines of badly researched print and ripping it furiously into tinier and tinier pieces as if she could obliterate the meaning of the words that way, tearing until there was nothing left except shredded confetti pieces that lay scattered at her feet and still stared up at her mockingly, and she thought _maybe I could burn them_ and then suddenly broke down into horrible sobbing gasps that might have been laughter. Wanting so badly for him to be there so he could tell her everything would be all right, but of course he couldn't and it wasn't. That was the whole point.

Lemony stared down at the floor gripping the tissue in his hand as if it was a vital piece of information and just when she thought he wasn't going to say anything he whispered _Yes, but you're not…_

_Not what?_ she asked him, genuinely confused.

_Not still… like _this, he said, gesturing to himself in disgust. _You're stronger than me, Kit. You're braver than I am, you always were. I'm just…_ He broke off again, and she got the sense that he wasn't lost for words as such, just that there were too many for him to pick just one. _Weak, cowardly, pathetic._ He didn't have to say any of them, she could see them in his face and was suddenly furious, the way she'd been as a child if anyone insulted the people she cared for. _Don't you talk that way about my brother._

_Listen to me._ She held him by the shoulders and turned him to face her. _There is nothing for you to be ashamed of. You don't have to hide anything in front of me._

But you don't… 

_Don't what? Don't cry? Don't get depressed? Don't get scared?_ She sighed and pulled off her gloves, holding her hands out so he could see the ragged edges of her nails, the reddened skin around them where she'd bitten down sometimes hard enough to draw blood. _I'm only human, Lemony. That's all any of us are._

Tears welled up in his eyes again, but this time he didn't make any effort to hide them. _I love you, Kit_, he whispered, and she drew him close and murmured _I love you too_ into his hair. They had to hold each other for a long time before he fell asleep, but that was all right. There was a lot of catching up to do.

She gets up from the chair, leaning over to kiss him gently on the forehead, and he curls up even tighter, muttering something she can't translate. The look on his face when she pulls away is almost a smile, or the beginnings of one. She looks back over her shoulder at him as she goes into the bathroom, and feels what she hasn't felt in a while, that maybe things are going to be okay. He's safe. He's alive. He's _here_. And for tonight, at least, he has someone to watch over him.


End file.
